


Castle of Glass

by Demenior, mademoisellePlume



Series: Tomorrow I’ll Switch the Beat [5]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Culture, F/M, Galra Empire, Gen, M/M, Multi, POV Outsider, Politics, VLDRarePairWeek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-23 20:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9675899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demenior/pseuds/Demenior, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mademoisellePlume/pseuds/mademoisellePlume
Summary: [For Voltron Rare Pair week: see tags for pairings. Gen included]Fractures can be unmade. Bone to bone, flesh to flesh, glass to glass. But the scar tissue lasts forever.ORActions have consequences.





	1. Past/Present

**Author's Note:**

> Demenior and mademoisellePlume (krakendra on Tumblr) have divided up the seven prompts of #VLDRarePairWeek between ourselves! We will be posting each story every day this week as a new chapter, and adding the characters & relationships as we go. Welcome back to the Switch the Beat Universe!

“Allura, you’re working yourself too hard. The paladins have all gone to sleep, and I had a rest earlier today. Let me keep watch, and you go and sleep.”

Allura blinked tired eyes at him. He could see the real her, layered underneath the human form she projected for the paladins. It wasn’t a bad form, what she showed them, with the same crop of curly white hair on her head, and bark-brown skin. But right now, the human form had bags under the eyes, and her true self had rings around them.

“I’m fine, Coran. I need to keep working on this.”

Coran frowned. Allura held her mother’s bag in her lap, in the midst of her current project. Item by item, she was examining what Queen Cenura had kept in her workbag, testing old spells with them, and relearning the magic that Cenura had always prized so highly.

“You’re wilting, dear. It’s time to let it go for the day,” he told her gently. The object she was blearily examining was a sickle, and he wasn’t going to risk needing to pop her into a cryopod to regrow the stems of her fingers.

Ugh. The sickle. It gave him the willies, sure enough. But, Cenura had used it, and so shall Allura. Like mother like daughter.

He had to keep reminding himself of that. She was her mother’s daughter. A delicate blossom nurtured by Alfor’s steady love and Cenura’s tempestuous doting.

Coran was the uncle figure. Coran was the nanny. Coran offered sheltering shade. Coran had to remember this.

Coran gently took the sickle from her and tucked it back into the bag. “It will be here in the morning, Princess. You’ll work better after rest, and relearn everything more efficiently.”

Allura sighed, giving in and letting him take her mother’s bag from her. She leaned forwards and rested her head on his shoulder, hugging his chest. “I miss her so much, Coran. I miss her and I miss father, and I miss not being the one in charge most of the time. She’d know what to do about Shiro. Father would know what to do with Voltron.”

Coran held her gently, rubbing her back. “You’re so like your father, Allura,” he told her. “Alfor worked himself tirelessly for our people, and he still missed his father, your grandfather Alfhein. It’s not a weakness to miss the guidance of those who came before us.”

“Really?” she asked, and he let his hand rest soothingly on the back of her head.

“Of course. There were many nights I had to send your father to go home to you and your mother. Even before you, before your mother and he wed, when he was new to the throne, I had to remind him that even Alteans need sleep. You can’t imagine how hard that was when he was a paladin himself; he just wanted to spend all his time with his lion.” Coran chuckled and so did Allura, though it was a more watery sound coming from her.

He was honest about it too. Though, distracting the king and sending him on his way to sleep had always been a more… interesting proposal, before Cenura made her claim.

“I can hardly imagine him as a paladin,” Allura confessed to him. Of course, she’d never seen her father as a paladin; when King Alfhein had passed, Alfor had given up his lion and taken on his role. It wasn’t a full year after that when Alfor and Cenura had added Allura to the royal family tree.

“He was magnificent,” Coran told her, remembering those long ago days. “Prince Alfor had a strong bond with his lion and liked nothing better than to bond with his team and fly through the cosmos. I was Support in the Castle even then, you know, and it was truly amazing how Alfor grew into the role and become every bit the Altean prince I knew he could be. He was diplomatic and made friends all over the universe! This was before the war, of course. He was a bit of a heartbreaker though. Everyone wanted to see him smile at them. He had a great smile.”

Allura sighed. “He was a good man. A good king. The last Altean monarch.”

Coran frowned and told her, “You’re the last monarch, Princess. I know there’s only you and me, and we haven’t had a chance to do a version of the ceremony, but the crown is yours.”

“It’s meaningless, though, without Altea. Without our people.”

“Hey. Hey, no. Princess.” He held her shoulders at arms lengths and waited until she met his eyes before continuing, “We have Voltron. We have allies. For all we know, some of the seed banks of Altean genetic material still exist out there. If enough has survived, we could clone our species back. Hope is not lost.”

Allura nodded, but he knew she still doubted. He had doubts too, but for all that was on her shoulders, Allura was still young, barely a mature adult at all. He had to be a solid support system for her to lean on.

“Soon, we’ll formally have you coronated, as best we can. And even if you’re only the queen of me, a handful of mice, and our motley assortment of naked space apes, you’ll still be a monarch to rival any of your forebears. The greatest Altean queen in living memory,” he swore to her. She laughed at his gentle insult of the humans and smiled at him.

“Thanks, Coran. Thank you for being there. For being silly for us and making our hearts lighter. And for being serious for us when we need it. Thank you for being here for me and taking care of me. You were a true friend of my father’s.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll go rest now. Shiro should be awake before too long and can relieve you on watch duty.”

“Sleep well, Princess,” said Coran. He watched her leave and carefully didn’t think about how ‘Princess Alfan’ would have suited her better.

Alfor had made his choice, and Coran had accepted it.

He had.

Really.

Cenura had won. Had taken Alfor. Had borne him a child. Had commanded their people and worked with Voltron. Had done everything a good Altean queen ought to do.

Coran put her bag next to his station and looked up into space, trying not to think ill of the dead.

Despite everything, without Cenura, there never would have been Allura. How Cenura produced someone like Allura, he’d never know. But he could be grateful for that. He could feel regret for the fact that Allura felt sorrow for her, and he could remember how devastated Alfor had been and feel sorrow for that as well.

Cenura was missed.

But for now, Coran was the closest thing to a parent Allura had, and he hoped her shade didn’t think ill of him for his familiarity and comfort in that role.

Alfor’s spirit would never begrudge him that, of course. A child needs family to root them in their past and their heritage, he’d say, even if that family isn’t related by blood.

“Confound it, solo watch always makes me feel morose,” he muttered, twiddling his moustache. Without the young paladins to distract him or Allura to support, there was a lot to think on, and none he wished to dwell on right then.

It had been easier when the Queen was still alive, really.

Back then he didn’t have to struggle to think of her in polite terms. All society required was that he was polite to her face and didn’t actually speak ill of her to others. He could think whatever he wanted.

She’d known how he felt, obviously. He still remembered how she’d made eye contact with him when Alfor announced the pregnancy. She’d come to him afterward and kissed his cheek, proclaiming that she knew he’d be a lifelong family friend, and protector of her and Alfor’s child. She’d even taken his hand and held it to the swell that was the unborn Allura, encouraging him to feel the child move.

Cenura had always known how to make her claim to Alfor clear. Allura was the fruit of their loins, not his. He avoided the whole awkward situation (and the unsettling Consort to the royal pair) and had just focused on doing his work.

Being Support in the Castle of Lions was a big job. He’d come into the job as a young sprout and had grown into his current position, growing through the ranks and gaining seniority, where his role started to take him into the company of the prince more and more often. They’d played together as children, but now as the one helping the prince repair his lion, helping him spar, and keeping him fed, they grew closer again.

He and Alfor had spent many pleasant evenings in the port cities of foreign planets spreading good impressions of Alteans amongst the more nubile members of those species. He and Alfor had been primary partners, and Coran had entertained hopes of wedding the Prince. They worked well together, they balanced each other out. Coran made Alfor laugh. Alfor helped Coran know when to be serious. And they shared taste in who to bring into their bed.

They could have been great. It _was_ great. For a while.

Then he learned why there was no winning in letting things take their course. You couldn’t let things happen as they did, you had to move fast on what you wanted.

Waiting would mean you’d lose your chance.

Alfor had gone out in society one night, and he’d come back raving about this beautiful woman who had crafted a delicate working of quintessence into a shimmering dress and maintained that beautifully worked spell the whole evening. It had, in every sense of the word, dazzled him.

He’d invited her to see the Castle of Lions. Alfor had told Coran that they should charm this impressive woman. She’d be a wonderful Consort to the two of them. Coran agreed to try.

Cenura had arrived, beautiful and gracious. She asked Coran to get her a drink and when he’d returned, Alfor had started guiding her around the Castle. Coran tried to join in the tour, but Cenura just gave him a blank look when he cracked one of his best jokes about the time a _Relaked_ paladin had taken one of the lions for a joyride and ended up tail over head in a jungle on a planet known for its creative and mischievous native population.

Alfor usually burst a gut at that joke. But the silence from Cenura seemed to drain the humour from the air.

She had a delicate hold on Alfor’s arm and asked how it was funny that the poor man had been put in such a situation. Coran tried to explain, but the gentle grimace on her face spoke of nothing but distaste and confusion.

The joke did sound crude put that way.

Prince Alfor tried to distract from the awkwardness by telling her a story about how he and Coran once accidentally offended the newest allied planet to the Alteans by propositioning their Princess.

“You’re kidding me! I can just see you doing that Alfor! Oh, didn’t Coran warn you that they’re utter prudes?” Cenura had giggled. “They don’t understand anything about how we go about procreating.”

“We hadn’t been allied with them long,” Coran had tried to defend himself, but Alfor was laughing and already explaining how they’d gotten out of that mess.

“We told them it was a translator error, and we meant to invite her to a dinner with just the three of us! It was a close one, but they believed us,” Alfor told her with a sigh of relief, and Cenura popped a kiss on his cheek.

“How clever! Oh, Alfor, what’s this room for?” Cenura pushed to move on to the next part of the tour.

Coran had found himself trailing behind the couple. Not just on that tour. Alfor had asked him if they should maybe see other people. Independently. With different primaries.

Coran had swallowed his pride and agreed. No need to make this harder for Alfor. Sometimes feelings changed. He’d thought at the time that if he just stepped aside, maybe he could be a secondary to them, perhaps even Consort.

He should have known Cenura better at that point.

“I’m so glad you understand how things are.” She told him not long after Alfor had broken up with him. “The Prince values your friendship so much.” They were alone, and Cenura was letting more of herself show through a bit. Just for Coran. “I suggest you enjoy his friendship in turn. I’ve agreed to trust him to spend time with you. Trust is so important, isn’t it Coran?”

“It is,” Coran had told her. They stared off at each other until Coran broke the eye contact and looked at the ground.

Victorious, she touched his cheek. “Don’t fret, Coran,” she told him. “This is for the best. You could never have been suitable for a royal station.”

And then she’d left.

A mouse squeaking loudly brought Coran’s attention to the here and now. He’d been so mad at the memory, he’d let his disguise as a mostly bald space ape slip. He wouldn’t want to distress any of the Paladins if they wandered in!

He drew that shape change around him like a cloak. He had a duty in this moment, at this time. And it wasn’t anything to do with Cenura.

It was about Allura. It was about Voltron. It was about five new Paladins. It was about their dead race.

Cenura could rest in peace.

She’d never have been suitable for a situation like this.


	2. Lions/Mice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have a glimpse into the future of Switch the Beat!
> 
> If you keep your eyes peeled you'll see references to other events in the series ;)

There's nothing quite as unsettling as a predator waiting to strike, Slavka decides. Surrounded by prey, all it takes is the beast to grow bored of playing tame, and to lash out to sate itself. It's like a blaster pointed at her head, and no one else can see it.

The Castle of Lions is on their base, which means she is on edge. And if she is on edge, than damn right the rest of her troops are nervous. The fools of Voltron are bearable, trustworthy even, when they're not underfoot or openly rebelling against her. _They_ don’t worry her.

But they insist on bringing Champion with them. And worse, they let him run free and even placed him in the position to _lead_ them.

The most powerful weapon in the fight against Zarkon, the brightest symbol of hope for the Rebellion, and it's being led by Haggar’s Right Hand.

They have parked the Lions outdoors-- as if the ships need to soak in sunlight like living creatures. And with nothing assigned to them from their commanding officer-- a waste, really-- they are performing some play game that involves them running around the ship’s anchors-- paws? She doesn’t understand why the ships are designed to look like alien creatures-- running like they are in a panic, tossing a projectile at one another, and then chasing whomever has the projectile. It’s senseless, mindless noise of the likes that Slavka hadn't seen in years. Not since joining the Alliance.

She would have called it fun, if she wasn't so worried every time Champion comes near a child.

How concerning that the Paladins of Voltron are either a trained Galra killer, or a handful of adolescents who are easily manipulated by their hero worship of their leader. Champion has conned his way into a place of security, as his team has proven again and again that they will trust him. Even when presented with the truth of what he's done and proof of his loyalty to Haggar.

Her hearts skip a beat as one of the children catches the projectile and Champion, being the closest to their vicinity, reaches out and grabs the child in his arms. They tumble into the grass together, rolling in the dirt.

It looks so similar to the footage of Gart’s death, that Slavka can’t look away. Champion will stand, blood staining his jaw, and the child will be writhing in the grass with their throat torn out. They’ll be gasping for air, or trying to scream, and all they’ll do is choke on their own blood. She reaches for her blaster. She has a clear shot from here. Champion doesn’t know she’s watching.

Not that the bite had killed Gart. Champion is sadistic and cruel, and made sure all of Slavka’s soldiers had suffered for the attack on Haggar.

Champion stands up. The child is unharmed and laying down, still holding the projectile. The other children are running in, and some sort of new game is beginning in which they are all fighting against Champion now.

What has brought them to this? To Slavka watching the creature that had slaughtered her best soldiers, hurt Gart, her… He’d tortured everyone. Torn out Gart’s throat. Ruined their best chance at apprehending the Druid Haggar. And now Slavka watches him play in the grass with children. Watches him ride into battle like he is a hero, like he _cares_ about the fate of the universe. Like he wants to overthrow the Galra.

She doesn’t know what game he is playing at. Whether he really has turned coat on the Galra (unlikely, she’s seen his propaganda. He was a loyal and patriotic soldier right up until he’d been assigned the covert operation to infiltrate Voltron), or whether his ruse of amnesia is true, she knows better than to trust him.

The Alliance has survived this long without Voltron, and it can survive longer. It can win this war without Voltron, not that anyone seems to believe that anymore. Slavka fingers the blaster at her belt. One step out of line and she will make good on her promise to put Champion down like the filthy Galra he is. And she knows that day is coming. A predator can only spend so long amongst prey before it has to strike. She knows with the cold certainty of truth: Champion will not survive this war. Whether she kills him herself, or cosmic justice finally hangs him for his actions, only time will tell.

If Slavka has anything to say about it, the coming era of peace, the dismantling of the Galra Empire, will not be made possible in Champion’s blood-soaked hands.

Outside the children have succeeded in whatever their objective was. Champion is sprawled on the ground with the children lying around, and nearly on top of, him.

They’re laughing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Slavka, as is most of the series, is a loving shoutout to influential stories from my(our) youth. If you know what story she's from it means we're best friends now, sorry, those are the rules.)


	3. Awake/Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Demenior, posting for MP here cause she's having a lovely vaycay w her wife) 
> 
> Thanks for much for all the love, everyone! Now we get to enjoy this incredible chapter by MP! Hurry and read it while it's still fresh!

The arena roared. It wasn’t just the crowd roaring, the space itself had a force and spirit that thirsted for bloodshed and screamed for more.

Shiro squared up in the arena, waiting for another opponent, waiting to keep the title that was his. Blood stained his knuckles on both of his hands, and both hands stung with split skin. There was a dead Alternian on the ground, one of the shorter ones with light gray skin. It had lost a lot of blood before it had died, dying the arena floor a bright garish green colour. “Come on!” he roared. “Give me another!”

The crowd didn’t scream back at him. He looked out at them, confused - they always fed off any emotion he put out. 

The stands were empty. Frantically, he turned his gaze to the Emperor’s box. It didn’t matter if the crowds didn’t come out to see him - so long as the Emperor did, he still had worth and value.

But the Emperor wasn’t there. There was a shape there, but it was far too slight to be the massive and ancient king.

Shiro stood, silenced by the sight. He could feel the creature’s eyes gazing at him, now that he knew it was there. 

“My Champion.” He knew it was whispered, hissed out in a breath, but it sounded as loud as a gong.

It was the witch. Haggar. Alarms clanged, whistles blew, muscles tensed, but he didn’t move, didn’t dare twitch. 

“Have you missed me, My Creation?” 

She was in the arena with him now, though it all faded into a horrific background as he looked upon her. She was swathed in her robes and towering over him.

“Have you missed this place?”

Shiro knew the arena around him without looking. For all his memory problems, once a few memories of the arena had breached his mind, the entire layout had been cemented. 

“Have you missed killing with your own hands?”

He raised his hands, palms up. One fleshy hand, one metal hand. Had it seemed different before?

“Does it seem strange, your new life?”

“Yes,” he heard himself say, hoarse and confused.

The druidic Galra moved towards him, and he was struck by an overwhelming need to run. He turned tail and fled, off the stage, past the drone-guards, out the slave-fighter exits, through the halls. There was no sound of a pursuit, but he didn’t slow. Shades of purple streamed past him, blurring together into meaninglessness.

He ran until he wasn’t in the ship; he streaked through the void of space like a comet. No need to breathe, no need for logic, just a screaming need to flee. Shiro scalded his feet on suns, smacked his head on meteors, and didn’t slow until he’d found the Castle of Lions.

He didn’t stop until he could lean against the leg of the Black Lion. He was breathing hard 

When Shiro could breathe again, he looked up into the eyes of his Lion. 

It was warmth, and it was weightlessness. Strange patterns in alien geometries seemed to pattern the space around him, crooning a deep-sounding melody that was almost a purr.

He lost himself in the connection, even as he felt the gap between them widen. There was something in the way.

Shiro reached out to try and move that inky blackness away. It pulsed and erupted. Thick, oily, and somehow sticky, it coated his palm and started to creep up his arm.

“Help me!” he screamed as he struggled to free himself from the darkness creeping over him.

But his Lion couldn’t hear him and was getting farther and farther away. 

Shiro was suddenly dangling from his Galra arm, inky blackness slowly coating it. It crept up to his shoulders, and he concentrated on making his hand the weapon it was built to be.

The strangeness released him, and he fell.

He landed in purple sheets. 

“Welcome back.” It was purred at him by a horribly familiar voice.

“No,” he whispered.

“Yes.” The word mocked him.

He lay in the sheets of Haggar’s bed, sweaty with fear and frozen like a deer spotting a threat,

She grabbed him by the neck and hauled him off the bed. “You have not behaved well enough to lounge on the bed. Into your cage with you.”

“What?” he demanded, confused. “Let me go!”

Her grip inexorably pressed him into a tiny cage by her bedside, his limbs scarcely able to fold enough to fit inside. “Stop fussing. What a disobedient child.”

“Let me out!” he cried. He wasn’t demanding it.

Shiro was begging. His entire body was shaking. There were memories here, ones he didn’t want back. He pleaded, “I don’t want to be here. Let me out, please let me out!”

“If you didn’t wish to be where you are, why would you have been so careless and foolish?” It was said calmly, as she eyed his desperation with clear disgust. “You were meant to be better than this.”

“I- I didn’t- I wasn’t-” he stuttered.

Shiro was stammering and clutched his head as best he could. His mouth was making strange shapes to form words and his throat hurt. Panic was overtaking him and his world seemed to narrow to the bars around him. 

She was saying things again but it all turned unintelligible in his ears. 

The old witch lifted her arm and brought it down on the roof of the cage, and Shiro sat bolt upright in bed.

Sweat plastered his sheets to his body, and he clawed them off, unable to stand the sense of being confined. He breathed hard, getting to his feet and pacing. Just a dream. Just a horrible, terrible dream.

It wasn’t real. None of these dreams were real. His mind was just throwing together the memories he’d regained with the experiences he’d had since then. The dreams were just his mind’s way of working it all out.

There was a lot to work through, and he knew that he had barely started to regain his memories.

Shiro went to shower, unwilling to go back to sleep. It wasn’t real, but it felt wrong. His elbows and knees were aching, and his back felt twisted.

He swallowed hard when he entered the bathroom and was confronted with an image of himself in the mirror. 

Shiro was used to being taken aback by his own reflection. His scars were hard to get used to. The long y-shaped one in front, which spoke of horrors he hoped to never remember. His scar on his face. Wounds on his sides from slashes and attacks. Scars upon scars, like a time capsule of a year he didn’t remember.

But what had taken him by surprise this time was the bright red mark on his throat, shaped vaguely like an enormous hand. It had small cuts with dried blood around them, right where the fingernails would be. 

“It’s not real,” he told himself again. He couldn’t meet his own eyes in the mirror as he said it.


	4. Free Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place shortly before chapter 1 of Little Monster, but is easily read as stand-alone and canon-compliant. 
> 
> I've been sitting on this idea for a long time, and wasn't sure how to bring it into Switch-verse without a flashback, since it's all Galra pov, but now I have the chance!!
> 
> Here's our blast from the past, ft the unholy trinity of the Galra Empire.

Arena nights were Sendak’s favorite. He didn’t always have time to attend, and as of late he had been on missions to the front lines and had to stream the fights to his ship, but there was nothing like the energy of the Arena in person.

Since the untimely death of the former High Commander, Sendak had been promoted and now had the glory to attend to the Emperor personally. This meant that he got the best seats in the house for watching the fights-- with the Emperor himself-- but that also meant he had to deal with the Emperor’s Right Hand.

Sendak had a lot of respect for Haggar. An ancient wench of a Galra, she was small where everyone else was large, and her long tapered muzzle gave the hint that once upon a time she had been beautiful. She cultivated an air of mystery and had a cold and malicious reputation. While he’d never be able to prove it, Sendak was well aware that most Commanders that disagreed or caused too much hassle for the old witch met tragic ends. At least, the ones whose bodies had been recovered could prove that. While they often didn’t see eye to eye, he could recognize she was brilliant and powerful, and knew to pick his battles carefully. She had been at the Emperor’s side a long time-- even before Sendak was born-- and she played her games well. She was small, and appeared weak, but unlike many Commanders before him, Sendak knew better than to underestimate her. Her mane was the longest he’d ever seen on any Galra, and was a stark white against the dark shades of her robes.

That being said, Sendak couldn’t help but feel a little reckless with the energy of the arena and the excitement of the upcoming Feeding Day.

“Haggar,” he called across the booth, leaning to look around the Emperor, “how’s the weapons development going? Are we going to be seeing anything new this cycle?”

Haggar wrinkled her nose like she’d smelled something unpleasant. She recognized the bait that Sendak was laying out for her. They’d been having this argument for a while now, though as far as Sendak knew she hadn’t brought it up to the Emperor yet.

In the end, she rose to the challenge.

“I do not believe stronger weapons are the key to our victory,” she replied.

Sendak bit back a grin at her scowl, “And yet you and your Druids are the ones who have spent cycles and cycles creating stronger weapons! Now, nothing can stop us! Of course we will win now!”

Haggar shook her head, “Weapons have weaknesses. They can be pointed in any direction. The less skill a weapon requires, the easier it will be for the rebels to turn it on us. We must invest in training our soldiers, not in equipping them.”

“You create the weapons! Magic them so they cannot turn on us!” Sendak said. He had no magic skill himself, but with how everyone revered Haggar’s powers, she must have some way to spell up her weapons, “the amount of time it would take to properly train soldiers the way you describe is far too much. Many more cycles than we have time for! We will lose more soldiers to the training than we will to the war!”

“Good,” Haggar hissed, “then we shall weed out the weak.” Sendak was sure she was just mad that the constant need for upgraded, stronger, better weapons was taking up all of her time. Haggar liked to have her claws in many projects. She was bored and it was making her cranky. But it also stalled her power, and Sendak wanted to keep her there. If she had nothing new, nothing _interesting_ to capture the Emperor’s attention, then Sendak could keep pushing his agendas.

“Even if we have trained soldiers, they will need to have proper weapons. We can’t just _stop_ developing more weapons.” It felt like such an obvious point. Sendak hoped that the Emperor would realize that he needed to tell his witch to be practical, “this is a situation where we can both be right.”

“It will be individual soldiers that will be the keys to the Empire. My weapons are powerful, but they must be in the right hands to assure us our victory,” Haggar said dismissively, as if she’d won.

Sendak was ready to snap back at her, but then the Emperor spoke. He’d been broodingly silent to the point that Sendak had started to worry he’d fallen asleep or was just tuning them out. While they quarreled a lot, Sendak thought that he was worth listening to at least.

“Considering your current champion is undefeated,” the Emperor rumbled to Haggar, “I must say, your weapon seems more promising than the one who wields it.”

“That weapon could be in the hands of any alien. It did not make my champion great, but he uses it to achieve greatness,” Haggar insisted. She was always dismissive of her experiments that she had fighting in the arenas. This one, though, she seemed almost fond of. Probably because it had lasted long enough for her to form an attachment to it. Sendak wasn’t sure it even had a name, but it was a nasty creature that had taken to Haggar’s attention like light to the black hole. Sendak wasn’t keeping count, but it might be her longest-lived champion yet.

“Then tell me,” the Emperor almost seemed amused, “what is your ideal soldier?”

“There is no ideal,” Haggar replied, “there is only how well they will take to the conditioning. You could take an animal and make it a great warrior capable of beating anyone. Even the High Commander.”

“An animal,” Sendak said incredulously, “you think a stupid animal could best me in a fight?”

“With my training regime,” Haggar said.

The lights flickered, indicating the next round of fighters were being brought into the arena. Sendak looked them over as the shuttle brought in a dozen new prisoners. He could already tell how the fight was going to go for most of them, he’d seen their species fight before and they were nothing exceptional. Two of them caught his attention-- they were new and had caused a buzz. From some backwater planet without a name. Hairless, except for their heads, bipedal, and so primitive that they could make it to the edge of their own solar system but couldn’t speak a single language other than their stupid grunts and cries. Their skin was so soft that they were going to pop like bloodbags.

Despite her initial interest in the new aliens, Haggar wasn’t much interested in the fight s either. She’d spoken with her champion prior to the fights, made her revisions to her weapon, and was just waiting to see how it performed. She had her eyes closed and looked more like she could fall asleep at any moment, rather than actually enjoy the fights.

There were only two of the new aliens present, so one of them must have been sent to a work camp. They’d caused quite a stir: coming from some backwater planet that didn’t even know how to make it out of their own solar system. They were so primitive and savage that they weren’t even worth becoming part of the Empire! That planet had nothing viable to offer, except some entertainment when Sendak got to watch the two dumb aliens die tonight.

Pity, that the other two would probably die tonight. Sendak was getting hungry thinking about how nice it would be to bite into something warm and juicy. He’d wanted to sample one of the bloodbags too. Something new to taste at the Banquet. A part of him hoped a miracle would happen and one of them would survive until Feeding Day for him.

The first two fights went exactly as expected. With his powerful weapon, Haggar’s champion decimated his opponents. There was no flaw in technique-- especially when the technique was just to overpower and _smash_ the enemy. It was a shame none of the other prisoners had combat training necessary to make themselves a challenge, but all the same, it wasn’t long before Sendak got caught up in the excitement and forgot all about Haggar’s silly ideas. The Arena sand was streaked with blood, and the magical weapon the Druids had crafted had nearly decimated half the terrain set up to decorate the fighting grounds.

It was finally time for the bloodbags to enter the Arena. It was possible they had some sort of hidden ability that the scientists had missed in their initial anatomy reports. Unlikely, but Sendak was hoping for a good fight. Maybe they’d spray blood everywhere when they were crushed. That would be a sight to see!

Of course though, the primitive aliens were afraid. The smaller one was refusing to fight. They were pack animals, as evidenced by how they always huddled together wherever they went, and so, predictably, the larger one tried to get between the small one and the drone trying to offer it a weapon. Sendak had seen other aliens accept going into the Arena first, to try and save their comrades. This was nothing new. It was boring, really. They were both going to die, why draw it out any longer?

Then the larger alien stole the weapon from the drone, and stabbed it’s fellow alien in the leg. Sendak had not seen that before. He saw Haggar sit up suddenly, and her ears came forwards. She was interested in a way that he hadn’t seen her in the whole time he’d been working with her.

“What purpose does that serve?” Sendak laughed, “it attacked its own kind? How stupid! How barbaric!”

“No,” Haggar shook her head slowly, never once taking her eyes off the bloodbag now screaming something out at the crowds. It looked like it might start beating it’s chest in aggression. Maybe they did have some sort of bloodlust? Sendak was a little impressed. This might be a good fight after all.

“That wasn’t stupid,” Haggar whispered, growing excited, “empathy. Expressed through violence? What a marvelous species.”

“It’s gonna pop like a Taxxon. Won’t be marvelous for long,” Sendak taunted.

Haggar didn’t pay him enough mind to even respond. She was fixated on the new alien, and watching it closely. It entered the arena full of bravado and swagger, overconfident of its abilities. Sendak couldn’t wait to see it fail.

The fight droned on much longer than it should have. The alien used the terrain to its advantage, and despite all of its yelling and squawking earlier, it spent most of the fight on the run and cowering while Haggar’s champion decimated the terrain around it.

That was, until, the impossible happened. Sendak wouldn’t believe it if he hadn’t witnessed it personally.

The bloodbag beat Haggar’s champion. Sendak would laugh, but it proved there was a glaring flaw in the weaponry design that a simple, primitive alien had somehow figured out. Why hadn’t Haggar fixed it yet? Had she set the whole thing up? Purposely rigged it so that her champion would lose, proving her point that she needed to stop spending her time on weapons, and invest in training soldiers?

“What a fight!” Zarkon cheered excitedly. Usually Sendak could join in on the Emperor’s excitement for the Arena, but not right now. He had a sickening feeling that this was a Set Up, and Sendak had walked right into Haggar’s trap. The old hag was incredibly cunning.

“My Lord,” Haggar said to the Emperor, and Sendak wanted to growl. How could the Emperor not see this was all set up? Haggar did nothing by coincidence. “My training program. Let me train the alien. It has proven itself competent. I can work with it, and make it into the strongest weapon the Galra have ever known.”

Sendak wanted to laugh at the boast.

“We don’t have a thousand years,” he interjected, “we are fighting a war _now_. We need weapons and warriors _now_.”

Haggar barred her teeth at him, “I can work quickly. But it will take time. Let me take this new project for the next cycle.”

The Emperor thought carefully. He hummed to himself, his deep voice echoing in Sendak’s ears. The witch thought she could make a proper Galra soldier out of the savage animal? Had she gone mad? She was too smart to think this would be anything but a failure.

“We don’t have time. Give it two cycles,” Sendak offered. An impossibly task deserved an impossible timeline. The sooner it was done with, the sooner the druids could move on to important things.

Haggar hissed at Sendak, and the Emperor finally opened his eyes before Sendak could retaliate.

“Six cycles,” he announced, “you may pursue this project for six cycles. We will determine your success rate at that time, and decide whether to terminate or continue. I give you this time, because you have been nothing but trustworthy and hardworking in my service. I know you will work hard for the Empire.”

“ _Vrepit Sa_ ,” Haggar saluted.

“Six? Six whole cycles? That’s more than she deserves--” The Emperor cut Sendak off with a growl. He obediently shut his mouth.

“Haggar has been by my side for longer than you can imagine. She has my trust,” the Emperor announced. He stood to take his leave, and both Sendak and Haggar saluted until he was gone.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing,” Sendak muttered as the curtains closed behind the Emperor, “but you can’t take dumb prey and make it civilized. It’s going to always be an animal.”

“I believe the aliens will prove far more interesting than we give them credit for,” Haggar said, smiling since she’d gotten her way, “I will make it strong enough to beat even the likes of you.”

“Defeat me?” Sendak burst into laughter. He nearly fell out of his chair. A small creature like that? Unintelligible and illiterate, with no teeth or claws? And she thought she could train it to beat him? He laughs, and laughs, and laughs until Haggar is stewing in her anger.

Sendak stands up to lean over the balcony, looking down at the Arena seating below them,  “Getting lucky in a fight is one thing. If it fights me, I will tear it to pieces,” he glanced over the rails down to the alien who was laying in the sand. It had refused to kill Haggar’s previous champion-- unheard of, since this was supposed to be a death match, and then it foolishly tried to fight the drones that were tasked with clearing the loser from the arena. Sendak wondered what Haggar would do to her former champion, since he was still alive. He watched the bloodbag twitching in the sand as it was electrocuted into submission.

She thought she could make a pathetic thing like that as strong as a Galra? Stronger? Ha! The crone had finally lost her mind.

“Save your boasting until you’ve actually won,” Haggar replied curtly.

“Well, you’ll have to hurry,” Sendak shrugged, “I know they’re keeping those aliens in B-block, which is on rotation for this cycle’s Feeding Day. And I, for one, can’t wait to have a bite.”

“He’ll start the cycle off properly,” Haggar nodded, as if Sendak hadn’t threatened her project, “I’ll bring him to the feast. He will dine with us, and it will bring good fortune for this cycle.”

“I don’t know what you see in it,” Sendak muttered, “even though it lost, your last champion was much better than this pathetic mess.”

“All of our data on the aliens said that they would not survive this fight-- and yet there he stands, the champion. I believe my new project has many surprises in store for us,” Haggar said. She was looking down, watching as the alien was dragged out of the arena. It was mostly unconscious, and barely fighting now. The other alien was still bleeding out, crippled, and would have to be transported to medical. They’d take samples of its blood of course, but other than genetic samples, with a crippled leg, there wasn’t much use for it. Sendak wouldn’t be surprised to see the human in the mess hall for the upcoming banquet.

“I don’t know what you intend to gain by failing,” Sendak admitted, “it got lucky, maybe it has some skill in combat-- but to make an intelligent, ruthless, cunning and bloodthirsty warrior like you’ve been describing? You can’t do it in six cycles, and you can’t create that from nothing. This human will fail you.”

Haggar tossed her long, silver mane-- a show of her Druid powers-- and pulled her hood down low over her eyes, “We shall see what he is capable of. Have faith, Sendak, he may be the key to finishing the war.”

“Or our undoing,” Sendak said dramatically, just to spite her. The thought of it, of a small little bloodbag being the death of them made him cackle again at the absurdity, “the instant I face him in battle-- or he faces any Galra-- he will die!”

“Perhaps,” Haggar said vaguely, and turned to leave, “I have many things to do now, I will see you at the meeting tomorrow.”

“Have fun planning language lessons,” Sendak scoffed, “you can train it to fight, but I don’t know if it’ll even learn to speak.”

“Goodnight,” Haggar said civilly, instead of engaging. Just once Sendak wanted to rile her up enough to have a tussle. He was sure that, once she realized how outmatched she was, she’d shut her mouth a lot more often than she opened it. His job would be a lot easier if she wasn’t always whispering in the Emperor’s ear.

On second thought. Had that been a threat? Sendak wondered. He glanced to where the ancient Galra had crept away. It _had_ been. She’d flat-out told him that she was going to train this stupid squishy alien to kill him. Sendak snorted and bared his teeth. He was the High Commander, and one of the strongest Galra in the Imperial Army. Let the crazy Druid have her strange fixations on other species. She could train a hundred of her pets to come after him, and Sendak would eat them all.

Oh well. It was another cycle of the same old shit. Haggar running in circles to prove she was clever, and the Emperor believing her smoke and mirror techniques. Sendak would have to continue like he always did: outthinking his opponents, and playing to his strengths. Though, this next cycle would be entertaining at least. Watching Haggar teach a dumb alien how to speak and act like a civilized Galra?

Sendak would get a laugh out of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MP and I love the idea that Shiro was never meant to be anything but a means to an end to Haggar, but then she... kind of got fond of him along the way because he kept surprising her with what he was willing to do, and how he'd succeed, in order to survive. 
> 
> Kind of like the trope of someone who doesn't like dogs ends up with a dog for a short period of time, and by the end they love their dog and never want to let it go.


	5. Summer/Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just like Little Monster gave us a glimpse at Galran Culture, we want to expose everyone to Altean culture as much as we can. Allura and Coran very much idealize their people, and why wouldn't they? They're proud of their culture- but nothing is ever as perfect as it seems, and here we start to see some cracks in it through the eyes of someone who surprised them all with how far he was willing to go to keep his title and bring honour to his people.
> 
> The road to hell is paved with good intentions, after all. This is just the start.

The long halls of the Altean Palace have almost begun to feel like home. Almost. There’s something _off_ about them. They’re too white, too bright, too organized. Zarkon misses the untamed wilds of his home. The simplicity of being with his pack.

He’s the first Galra to walk in two packs, and also the first to leave their planet. He sometimes wishes the Black Lion had never crashed, that he hadn’t been so curious as to find it and it’s dying Altean pilot. That the Black Lion had never chosen him, a Galra, to lead Voltron: the symbol of peace and unity and the pride of the Alteans.

He’d never chosen to become part of their politics, or their people, and yet here he is. He walks these halls-- not quite constructed, not quite grown but some mix of both-- and he passes by aristocrats and courtesans and the like, and they all bow their heads respectfully, and then they whisper their derogatory terms where they think he can’t hear them. Galra have very sharp ears. He thinks the Alteans know.

He tries to visit the Palace as little as possible-- but it’s hard when his friends are here. Alfor, and his friend (lover? Zarkon was never sure what Alteans were to each other) Coran had been the first to defend him when the other Paladins had refused to let Voltron be led by what they considered a savage and lesser creature.

Alfor and Coran had kept Zarkon from killing them all, and managed to broker a peace, and then finally explain to Zarkon what had happened to him when he climbed into the cockpit of the fallen spacecraft to hear the dying words of the previous pilot. Why there was an overwhelming presence in his head decrying _mine mine mine_.

And after all of that, he chose to stay. He took on the mantle of Black Paladin to a team who mistrusted him and refused to work with him at first—they’ve changed. Forming Voltron had been an eye-opening experience, and so they make a strange pack now that doesn’t quite feel like family—and through it all the Black Lion continues to choose him.  

She hums in their bond, a warm presence in his head. While he doesn’t like being on the planet-- he doesn’t like being on _any_ planet where they gape at him like he’s some odd creature dressed up in armor he shouldn’t be wearing-- she likes being here. She likes the quintessence of this place. It’s hard to keep up a foul mood when she’s so happy, but he’s nothing if not stubborn.

Today he’s been summoned by King Alfor for a meeting. Why they couldn’t talk over transmission like normal, Zarkon’s not sure.

His strides are long and determined. He’s gotten practice at walking on his hind legs over the years-- after he’d had enough of the Alteans talking down to him as if being primarily bipedal somehow made one superior-- and he’s relearned his balance after the fight that had cost him his tail. He still feels ungainly, but two legs are okay for the tidy floors of the Altean Palace. Four legs are best for running down enemies of Peace.

Alfor and Cenura are waiting for him in a sunny room. They have the windows open so a breeze flows through, and the scent of the gardens fills the room. They’re both wearing faces to make them look more Galra-- it’s an Altean way of trying to be nice-- but Zarkon wishes they would stop. It’s unsettling. But still, they’re some of the only Alteans who will appear as a Galra, because most Alteans consider it beneath them to appear as an animal. There’s some Altean law that appearances must be changed to be the most comforting to any sentient species around, and the common argument Zarkon hears is that Galra are too stupid and feral to be considered sentient-- and that he is the exception, as he’s become civilized and taught to speak the Altean languages.

But Cenura and Alfor mean well, and they have been nothing but good friends to him. Teaching him Altean etiquette to help him avoid embarrassment at social functions, teaching him how to read and write in the common languages of the universe and Alfor supported him remaining as the Black Paladin when no one else would. Zarkon will put up with their cultural weirdness. They’ve earned it.

The three of them come together and Zarkon touched foreheads with both of them. It’s a Galran greeting, one they learned for him and perform because it makes him feel a little more like he’s at home.

“Will you stay on Altea long?” Alfor asked “if you have the time I would love to hear about your adventures.”

“Depends what you’ve called me here for,” Zarkon admited, “but you know I prefer to be in space.”

“Such a pilot,” Cenura said, “always searching for adventure.”

“Searching for trouble is more like it,” Alfor laughed.

“Doing my job,” Zarkon admonished them.

They ignored the provided chairs and sit on the floor. Zarkon can lay down comfortably as is natural for him, with his hands folded in front of himself. It’s another small gesture his friends make, that confirms that they do care about him. Cenura’s long white hair practically glows in the sunlight.

“I bet you’re wondering why we called you home?” Alfor asked. Zarkon doesn’t want to argue with him, but he winces at the idea of Altea being home. Altea will never be his home. He has some friends, but he’s not wanted here, even as the Black Paladin.

“What is so important that we had to speak in person?” Zarkon doesn’t like long-winded rants to get to the point.

Alfor and Cenura glanced at one another, and smile. They’re in cahoots about something. The last time he saw Cenura with a smile like that was when she’d revealed how a particularly xenophobic (or, rather, Zarkon-hating) Altean had previously-unknown ties to an ancestor that was a suspected carnivore. While Alteans tended to be politely condescending to anyone who ate meat, for any of them to consume anything that wasn’t their specially made nutritional food was nearly sacrilege. And to be a carnivore on top of that. Apparently that Altean had nearly been shamed out of the court.

Alteans were weird, Zarkon had accepted this. But he could play by their rules, so long as it meant he and the Black Lion would be together forever.

“We are planning to have a child,” Alfor announced.

Zarkon’s ears came forwards. A baby? A family? If he still had his tail it might wag. He missed his pack and the crowd of infants and juveniles tumbling underfoot.

“Congratulations,” he said. It was early, but he wasn’t sure what else to say.

Cenura laughed in a way that meant something had gone over his head. Zarkon grit his teeth. Alteans and all their subtle cultural mysteries would always aggravate them.

Thankfully, his friends never held his ignorance against him.

“Altean Unions are composed of three,” Cenura explained, “and as you can see we are only two here.”

“Three with Coran, then?” Zarkon asked, “I apologize, I have not brought anything for the ceremony.”

Coran was never far from Alfor’s side, and while Cenura and Coran didn’t always see eye-to-eye, Zarkon had assumed that the three of them were married already.

“No,” Alfor said slowly.

They were wearing their Galra faces which made it easier for Zarkon to read their expressions. He knew what those flickering ears, that tightened muzzle or the narrowed eyes meant. Watching Alfor’s pseudo-Galran face indicated that this had been a difficult decision for them. One that Alfor might not entirely agree with.

“We have decided not to ask Coran,” Cenura said, “because, Zarkon, dear friend, we would like to ask you to be our Consort.”

“A… consort?” Zarkon asked in confusion.

“A secondary,” Alfor clarified, “an Altean Union isn’t whole without three. While Cenura and I are primaries, we still need our secondary before the Union is complete.”

Zarkon’s brow furrowed, as if he were starting to draw his lips into a snarl, “And you are asking me? To… to be your third?”

Altean politics have always been confusing to him. The fact that they remain loyal to the same partner cycle after cycle is strange enough. But _two_ partners? Well… it’s at least closer to normal.

“Consort to the Royal Pair,” Alfor nodded, “it is an esteemed position. It comes with many responsibilities and obligations.”

“Will I still get to be a Paladin?” Zarkon asked. He won’t ever give up being the Black Paladin. Not until he’s dead.

“Yes,” Cenura explained softly, “of course. But you will be required to take a more active part in life here on Altea.”

She more than anyone knew why Zarkon clung so tightly to the black armor. In Altean society she was nothing without her relationship to Alfor, just as Zarkon was nothing without the Black Lion. They were both outcasts, who had found power through luck and kept it with sharp teeth and iron wills. She’d become his closest friend, especially since Alfor has been so busy with his new role as King. Zarkon rarely sees him since he stepped down as Paladin, but Cenura makes sure to spend time with him any time he’s on Altea.

“Why me?” Zarkon asked. They are his friends, he trusts them. He does. But years of being set up for humiliation have trained him to ask this of any Altean request. If they cannot give a good answer, it means they’re asking him specifically because he’s a Galra and it’s work they don’t want to do.

“Because you’re Galran,” Cenura said, and he appreciates her bluntness, “our people have not been kind to you, and many leaders in the Coalition do not recognize you as a Paladin. But if you were to be a Royal Consort to the Altean King and Queen? Then they _must_ give you their allegiance if they wish to remain in the Union.”

“So this is entirely political,” Zarkon said.

“I wouldn’t say _entirely_ political,” Alfor teased. Zarkon can’t forget the night that a drunken Coran and Alfor propositioned him. Had he known that _that_ was their intention at the time… he might have said yes. Altean flirtations are just as strange as the culture.

“What we want is to give you power,” Cenura said, “and to make a statement. We want the Galra to be recognized as part of the Coalition, so that we can help bring them into the Universe.”

She knows that has been what Zarkon has been fighting for since becoming the Black Paladin. He’s been fighting tooth and claw to prove his people aren’t savages like the whole Coalition believes them to be.

“We want to make the universe a better place for our child,” Alfor said, “a place where all people can coexist and are accepted for who they are.”

Alfor had always been an idealist. It’s part of what Zarkon liked best about him.

“There will be opposition?” Zarkon assumed, “I don’t want to play your politics more than I have to.”

“Altean Unions are often done with only Alteans, as you can understand,” Alfor said, “but there have been cases of interspecies unions.”

“It may be a fight,” Cenura said, “but we are willing to take it on, if you are.”

This is the chance he’s been waiting for. A means to step up in the world, in the public eye. Alteans will be forced to bow to him, as a part of the Royal Union. He can start fighting for the rights of his people to be regarded as a sentient race, and hunt down those who wish them to remain as animals. He can bring technology, knowledge and skills to his people. He could teach them to fly, and let them see the universe like he has. He can protect them.

“Yes,” Zarkon decided, “I would be honored to be your Consort.”

Both Alfor and Cenura’s faces split into wide, toothed grins. Zarkon wonders if they even know what they look like.

“Then we have much to celebrate!” Alfor laughs, “we shall be a Union! We will change the Coalition together!”

“We should start spreading the news,” Cenura agreed, “let’s tell Coran first. He is our dear friend, after all. He will love to dance with us.”

“Dance?” Zarkon repeated. Walking-- sometimes running-- was about all he could do on his hind feet. Dancing sounded incredibly dangerous, especially with how easily Alteans could glide across the floor.

“Yes,” Alfor said, “we will have a huge gala to commemorate our Unification.”

“We have to dance?” Zarkon asked. He won’t. He’ll be made a fool at his own promotion.

“You don’t know how?” Cenura asked. Sometimes Alteans were so obsessed with brokering peace, and blending in to make everyone feel comfortable, that it was sometimes surprising with how ignorant they could be.

Zarkon shook his head, “Galra don’t have weddings or… or galas.”

“Dear,” Cenura pushed Alfor to his feet, “get us some music. We must teach our intended to dance.”

“Can’t be seen with someone who can’t dance,” Alfor joked. He was already walking before Zarkon could tell him to stop.

Cenura offered him her hand.

“I am… not graceful,” Zarkon said.

“You’re not Altean,” she replied, “stop trying to be. You are Galran and you are the Black Paladin.”

It was impossible to say no to her. She was too stubborn to ever give up. Zarkon got to his feet, and found his balance on his hind legs, letting her take him by the paw to an empty space in the room. Music filled the air.

They were both very good teachers, and put up with his slow feet and his questions about the music. Galra did not have music like Alteans did, and Zarkon found he enjoyed it very much. He’d much rather listen to it than dance to it.

Much of their warm afternoon was spent on teaching him, and by the end they were all twirling in and out of each other’s’ arms. It was all good fun, and strengthened with the realization that they were going to change the system. They were the future-- Altean Royalty and the feral creature they’d taught to act tame. They would hold power together, and they would defend the weak and restore balance to an imbalanced and corroding Coalition.

The Black Lion hummed proudly in the back of his mind. She loved his ambitions, and she also loved the idea of spending more time on Altea.

There was plenty more to ask-- namely, _why_ the Alteans required a third partner in order to conceive. Or just what his duties would be, exactly. But those were all hard to think about when Cenura’s hair sparkled in the midsummer light, and Alfor was smiling like he was a young paladin again.

All in all, maybe there were some nice things about being on Altea. It might be worth it to make a home here after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Zarkon ends up modelling the Galran hierarchy after the Altean Royalty, since it's what he knows, after all)


	6. Wounds/Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was probably one of my favorite chapters to write! I missed writing Little Monster-era Shiro and Haggar a lot. 
> 
> [Takes place after chapter 2 of Little Monster, and before chapter 3]

The door buzzes as Malch returns home. Shiro's head snaps up from where he's bent over the datapad, doing his studying in the time between his combat training and her return.

He stands up as she walks in, saluting. Thankfully this time his leash didn’t get caught on the chair and make him choke himself. That was so embarrassing.

She pauses in the doorway to take off her robes and hangs them by the door. Shiro keeps his back straight until he’s dismissed.

Malch takes up the seat Shiro had been occupying, and settles in with a weary sigh. There’s only one of everything at home. It’s not very big so it would be an inconvenience to get things for Shiro. Besides, he only uses the chair when she’s not home.

“Come here,” Malch says, and directs him to kneel at her side.

Shiro’s mindful of the leash keeping him tethered to the table, and makes sure not to choke himself as he moves to comply. Once he’s settled she reaches for his collar. He’s been looking forwards to this-- he’s needed to use the lavatory for a while now-- and so he tilts his chin up to give her access to his throat.

Instead she cups his jaw in her hand and turns his head back and forth.

“Malch?” Shiro asks nervously. There had been some misunderstandings when his beard had started growing in, and though she’d given him permission to keep it shaved, Shiro wonders if she was going to change her mind.

“You ate today,” was her reply. It wasn’t a question, and she hasn’t looked at his storage to see where his supplies are at. So, the evidence must be obvious.

“Oh,” Shiro says quietly. He prefers to eat when she’s not there. It’s… it’s still hard to stomach, the eating. He has to eat, to keep his strength up for the Arena, just to live, and it’s easier because they’re dead. But he feels like it’s a defeat, especially when she’s there to see him eating. He’d eaten after he’d been brought back from combat training, as he’d worked up a rabid appetite. It’s hard to be clean when he has to eat with his hands, and he thought he’d managed. Apparently not.

He nods in agreement.

She traces her fingers over his face, and now he can feel the stickiness of the blood he missed. It makes his ears burn. He’s not some helpless adult that can’t keep himself clean.

Malch licks her fingertips and wipes the blood away. Shiro holds himself still, but it just drives the humiliation home.

She inspects his face once she’s done, to be sure he’s clean, and then pats his head. She’s been trying to use human gestures to praise him lately, as she finds he’s very high-strung.

Malch surprises him by running her fingers through his hair, her claws just skimming his scalp. Shiro’s eyes flutter shut. He’s always loved when someone would play with his hair. She tries it a few more times, to test, and then hums in approval when she pulls away.

“How are your studies?” she asks, and picks up the datapad he was reading.

“Slow,” he admits, “but more good, every day.” The words come to him easier every day, but it’s still difficult to be learning three new languages at such a fast rate,

“You’re advancing quickly, but you are still behind others your age,” Malch says. She wants to be proud of him, because he’s good, he is, but he’s not exceptional. Shiro takes a moment to translate her words. It’s easier to understand her-- he’s used to how she speaks. Compared to other Galra who have heavy accents or mumble their words or use slang terms that Shiro can’t puzzle out yet.

“Others?” he asks. He hasn’t met any of Malch’s other students.

“ _If_ there were others your age,” she amends, “though I believe I’ve found a new apprentice.”

Shiro’s heart stops cold. Malch sounds pleased about this. Has she replaced him already? He’s doing the best he can, she can’t possibly be bored with him for that.

“New?” he ventures.

“A pup,” Malch explains, “Cassak. She has just begun showing potential, and she is strong.” Malch says ‘strong’ like it’s a steak and she’s starving for it, “it’s uncommon to have two apprentices, but I want to be sure little Cassak is brought to her full potential.”

Cassak. Shiro memorizes the name. His rival. He has to make sure he’s better than her or else why would Malch want to keep him?

But Malch said she would keep him on as her apprentice. He nearly sags in relief, and rests his forehead on her thigh. They’re both quiet a moment, surprised by the initiation of contact. Shiro’s always tried to keep to himself, to keep from angering her, and while she likes to poke and pull at him it’s usually from a curious standpoint. He sits back up before she can get mad at him.

“Will she come to-- be here? With us?” Shiro asks nervously.

“Where would I put another Galra?” Malch asks, “I can barely fit you, and you’re half the size.”

Shiro feels a little stupid for asking now, but the answer does help settle his nerves. He has an advantage then, to keeping Malch’s favor. He lives with her. That means he can get personal.

Shiro has always been a good roommate because he knows how to stay out of other peoples’ lives. Their drama is not his drama, their coming and going doesn’t bother him. He knows how to not get involved. He’s avoided pressing Malch for questions, afraid of angering her. It’s made him a stranger in her home, and though she’s patient and goes out of her way for him (coming home between meetings to let him off his leash, letting him sleep in her bed the night he was hypothermic) Shiro’s made sure to keep her at an arm’s length, despite everything. She wants him alive, she wants him to be glorious, but Shiro doesn’t want to be hers. Or, at least, he didn’t.

He has to make sure she’ll stop herself from getting rid of him if someone else with more potential comes along. He has to make her like him. Want him, even.

That means getting personal. It means opening up, letting her in more than he already has. _I will live through this_ , Shiro orders at himself.

“Your mind is so busy,” Malch says, and she’s narrowed her eyes in thought. Shiro wonders, not for the first time, if she reads his mind when he’s not aware, “what has you so distressed?”

He needs a pause, a quick break, and thankfully he has good reason.

“Malch, may I?” he asks, lifting his chin to present the collar. She forgot to unclasp the leash earlier. “I need to, um, the bathroom.”

 

* * *

 

When Shiro returns he has a basic plan in mind. He needs to be vulnerable, to invite her trust. But competent. He can’t ever be less than perfect. It’s an incredibly delicate line, and too far either way will make him too distant for her to become emotionally attached to him, or she’ll find him too weak and eat him. She’s made that threat many times.

Malch has retired to her bed, and is sprawled out in a stretch. She’s complained several times about her back and hips aching after long hours spent in either the War Room, with her other experiments down in her lab or with the High Council.

Not for the first time he considers bringing up massages, though he’s not sure if he could do any good for her. But he holds his tongue. It feels far too familiar to be touching someone like that, and if he did anything wrong she might just bite his head off in irritation.

Instead he picks up the spell book he’s been studying out of and sits down beside her bed, leaning back against it.

He opens the book to where he’d left off, and takes a breath to steady himself.

Shiro twists so he can see Malch behind him. Her eyes are closed, but she’s not sleeping yet.

“Malch,” he asks, and when her bright yellow eyes slide open he taps at his temple. It’s much easier to talk when she creates that link thing.

She slides closer to him, and her eyes spark with unnatural color. He feels her immediately, a tsunami of power that presses on the doors of his mind. He instinctively wants to rebel, he doesn’t want her in, but she’s so strong that she can break her way in. She has before. Shiro screws his eyes shut, forces himself to relax. Let her in, just let her in. It doesn’t hurt this way.

For a moment he’s overwhelmed, and drowning in the potential of her power. He’d thought that her talk of magic-- quintessence, the life force-- was more hokey than anything. But he’d seen her rip off Sendak’s arm with a wave of her hand, and she’s proven time and again that she didn’t have to touch him to hurt him. It was one thing to have as a threat, and another to experience it firsthand.

Like Malch has taught him, Shiro rides out the wave. She seeps into everything, filling up all the nooks and crannies in his mind, sealing up cracks or gaps and she makes herself comfortable. Her thoughts are a jumble, complicated and he’s not skilled enough to decipher them, but he doesn’t have to sink into them. Like standing with his eyes closed, on the edge of a cliff, or the sand before the ocean, and even though he can’t see her he can feel her there. She’s immense and grand and a force of the sort that legends are written about. The storm that sunk Atlantis or the Volcano that drowned Pompeii.

He directs those thoughts at her and opens his eyes in time to see her ears twitch with interest. A great curiosity rises up-- it’s hers-- but it makes Shiro _yearn_ to know as well. Malch pushes forwards. She wants to know context, she wants to know what he’s saying.

Shiro gives it to her. And watches her eyes widen in shock.

He’s said things in the moment, when he’s been punished for misbehaving or for fighting back. Whatever it takes to appease her, but they both know they’re not real truths. Malch appreciates the truth, though it means she knows how to manipulate it as well. This is the first genuine compliment he’s given her.

“What’s gotten into you?” she asks.

He can understand her perfectly now, with no stall while he translates. It has something to do with the Bond, but he doesn’t quite understand it enough yet.

When she talks it’s like there’s an echo, and sometimes when she’s connected to him he’ll see things he knows he never saw, and yet now he has the memory of it. She feeds him information, bit by bit, and he wakes up knowing more than he did that day before.

His accent is getting better, more natural. He can put together several sentences without struggling now. He’s even started picking up more Galard and Low Galran.

And it’s not just that. She’s learning from him too. Picking through his memories. More often than not she starts quizzing him about things he’s seen, human customs or where he’s been. She’s curious about humans, and is gathering up all of the information she can.

“I’m afraid,” the words all come to him easily, and while he still struggles to make his mouth fit around the strange sounds he knows what they should be, “that I won’t be a good Druid. That I won’t make you proud. How can I get stronger?”

“You do as you are told,” she says, as if it’s not obvious, “so long as you obey, you will do fine.”

“But how do I become great? I don’t want to be any Druid, I want to be like you,” he insists, and then he brings up the imagery of how it feels to be in the shadow of her power. How he wants to make others feel that shadow. It’s not a lie. He’s learned already that it’s impossible to lie in the Bond.

She’s sitting very close to him now, enough that her breath is warm on his shoulder. She could lean over to look at the datapad in his lap-- he was going to ask her for some help clarifying things later-- but instead he stops to watch her. Her fur is thinner on her face, and her muzzle more streamlined than Galra like Sendak or Zarkon, who have looser lips. The markings on her face are fascinating because Shiro’s never seen her apply them, and yet they are bright and vivid like paint, rather than scars.

He feels her sorting through memories, finds one of his father. Of that time his father had watched Shiro’s T-ball game, and at eight years old he’d walked off the pitch filled with dread of all the mistakes his father would have seen. Instead, his father had smiled down at him, for the first time without any criticism of his performance, and ruffled his hair and said ‘good job’.

That memory is closely associated with Shiro at fifteen: bitterly realizing upon reflection that his father had arrived late and hadn’t seen any of the game at all.

He feels Malch’s claws in his hair again, a poor imitation of his father’s comforting gesture. It makes his skin crawl, to see, to _know_ that she’s going through his mind and using this gesture specifically in the context of his memory. Her touch is soft and he closes his eyes as he waits for her answer.

“Under my tutelage you will make an extraordinary Galra,” Malch says softly, “there has never been an alien Druid before.”

“Then why me?” Shiro asks. He’s genuinely curious. What about him makes him so special.

“Because you have the Potential. You have the connection,” she says. She says that a lot. Her claws card through his bangs-- Shiro still hasn’t been able to find a mirror to actually see how much of his hair is going white, but he’s sure that’s what she’s looking at. If it’s all there in his bangs, he’s going to need to find some way to tie it back since he’s not allowed to cut it. Weird alien customs and all that.

Speaking of…

“Are those part of being a Druid?” he asks, and he lifts his hand to touch her markings. He catches himself before he makes contact, and draws back.

Malch’s ears lower, which usually mean she’s mad. Her claws still in his hair and Shiro’s braces to be hit. He doesn’t know what he said-- it must have been him trying to touch her.

“I’m sorry--” he starts, hoping to curb the punishment before she gets caught up in her own violence.

“Yes,” Malch says dismissively, “most Druids have chosen to wear them. In theory you do not need to wear your mask if you are also marked.”

Shiro swallows his fear. The Bond is still open and there’s… there’s so much pain. Could it be that these markings _are_ scars?

His mouth is dry with fear when he asks, “Did it hurt?”

Malch closes her eyes, and the Bond _sings_ with sadness. There’s rage and betrayal and… and… _oh_.

There’s loss.

Grief.

It’s old-- even as Shiro feels it he can feel her tempering it, taking it back under control.

“You lost someone,” he says, drawing conclusions, “and you got those marks?”

“It was a long time ago, Champion,” she says dismissively.

Loss is something grand, something vulnerable. He can relate to that. She can relate to him, bond to him, through that.

“I’ve lost people,” Shiro says.

“The other humans,” Malch comments, and in the Bond they both see the training room with the Holts calling for Shiro from the other end. Shiro goes stock-still on reflex, tucking his chin to his chest. Malch begins petting him again, and he feels her pleasure in his response.

 _Stay_. He Remembers her order. Remembers how hard he fought himself to obey and the pain of his disobedience. He's well trained now.

It takes a moment to come out of his stupor, and he lifts his head slowly so that she doesn’t accidentally cut him, “No, it… a death. Many deaths. And loss.”

It’s strange how the world works. There’s death all around-- people dying every day. It’s a unifying concept of humanity. But then there’s _loss_. And it’s such a personal tragedy, such a selfish thing, that you have to suffer it alone.

Shiro thinks up his grandfather-- of running and leaping, of skinning his knees and being told to be brave, of attention and affection and being seen-- and he gives all of these wonderful feelings to Malch.

And then he brings up the end. The hospice, the smells. The horror of looking at a man who had been so strong, reduced to nothing by his own body. How the decline had gone on and on and on. The embarrassing thought-- he’s so open to Malch it makes him want to recoil but he gives her all of this-- the naivety of a young teenager, who considered animal and human life to be comparable, asking ‘when will we put him down?’.

Finally, the loss. It’s so hard to name. Shiro’s still only now realizing what he lost. A friend, a confidante, someone who _knew_ him. Who accepted him when he wasn’t behaving perfectly, when he wasn’t achieving. Who took him in at his lowest, who praised him at his best. Someone who was present, was genuine and sincere. One of the only people Shiro has ever trusted.

It makes his eyes water, even now, to think about it. He lets Malch have all of it.

He ducks his head to wipe his eyes before any tears can actually fall. In the meantime Malch starts analyzing. She’s so curious. She wants to know about the hospice, about the place where humans die. She wants to know what they do with their dead, and she’s curious as to why Shiro considers thinks himself silly for his thoughts, and why they were so taboo for humans.

“You should have given him a dignified end,” Malch explains, “instead, your cowardice let someone you care about suffer.” She withdraws her hand and looks away from him, almost looking guilty.

He’s aware she’s probably speaking about humans in general, but it still feels directed at him. And he… he doesn’t want to argue. Sometimes he wonders, if his grandfather had held him behind and secretly begged for death, would Shiro have found a way to help him? Did he love him enough to kill him?

There’s regret in the bond, and it’s not all his own.

Shiro feels a little bolder, at being so open to her, “Who did you let suffer?” That has to be the reason she’s responding this way.

Malch’s ears press back again, and Shiro listens to the hum of her thoughts. There’s anger-- but it’s old, regurgitated from memories. It’s not at him.

She presses her eyes tightly closed before she spits out, “My daughter.”

Shiro… Shiro wasn’t expecting that. He’d assumed a sister, maybe a lover. Malch had never seemed, well, motherly. She lived alone, obviously for a long time for how her entire home was designed for just one Galra. She had no patience for anyone else, not even Shiro on some days. He had yet to see her spend any time with another Galra just for the sake of socializing.

To be fair, he was often busy with other things. He didn’t spend all of his time with her.

But the fact that she had a daughter? Or, rather, that she’d _had_ a daughter ever, just seemed strange.

And yet, it made a lot more things make sense.

The silence has stretched out between them.

Shiro risks breaking it, “What happened to her?”

Malch rumbles a growl, but she’s looking off at nothing in particular.

“The beginning of the war,” she says slowly, “I thought she was safe. I… I had important things, duties that had to be done. I left her with someone I trusted.”

There’s dread, and rage in the Bond. Shiro can only guess what happened.

“You were betrayed,” he summarized.

Malch’s lips curl back in a snarl and her growl rumbles through the room, “She was _murdered_! To keep her from me!”

Shiro twists so that he’s kneeling, braced on his elbows on the edge of her bed. His face is inches from her teeth. He searches for the right words to say, a truth that he can share.

“I’m sorry something so terrible happened to you,” he says. He doesn’t say ‘you didn’t deserve it’ because that would be a lie.

Malch sighs wearily, heavy like she’s burdened with a great weight. Shiro knows the feeling.

“Did you want to talk about her? Or… or share?” he means in the Bond, and hopes she understands.

Malch takes a moment, and then shakes her head, “No, no. Wallowing in misery won’t do me any good. It was… it was a very long time ago, and she was so young. There’s not much to remember.”

“How does it tie into your scars?” Shiro asks, “are they from trying to save her?”

This time Malch ducks her head, and she almost seems bashful.

“No, these… mine, at least, are from grieving.”

And with her head down like this, Shiro can see it. They’re tear tracks. Trailing from her eyes and down her snout, burned raised skin stained red in her fur.

Before Shiro can ask, she continues, “The Potential has always been strong in me, in my lineage. And I wept with such rage and sorrow that I tapped into the flow of all things, to try and ease my pain. Instead it marked me, and I wear my loss every day.”

“You loved her so much,” Shiro agrees, and as he says it he can’t believe he’s not saying a lie.

Malch smiles ruefully, sharp teeth showing, “You say that as if you don’t think I can love.”

Shiro sees his opening, and he doesn’t know if this is too much, too soon. If he’s pushing too hard and she’ll shut him down, or if his timing is off and she’ll forget this.

He has to go with his gut. He can’t tell a lie.

“I want you to love me,” he admits.

Her ears come to attention and she turns her head to look at him directly.

“I want to be good enough for you to love me,” he continues. And really? Love, of all the words? But he needs this. He wants her to think about her daughter when she thinks of him. He wants her to think of something she mutilated herself for losing.

“I want to earn it, but I didn’t know if you could give that.”

“Champion,” she says, in shock. The Bond is surprisingly quiet. He’s surprised her. He’s surprised himself too, if he’s honest.

“It takes time,” Shiro goes on, “I know that. But I want you to know, that everything I do, I do it for you,” _so you won’t kill me_ , “because I want you to be proud of me, of what you created. And I… I hope that you’ll love me enough to keep me.”

The silence stretches between them. Shiro’s heart beats heavily. But she hasn’t dismissed him, not yet. It means she’s thinking on it.

And better to let her keep mulling, rather than come to a conclusion he doesn’t want her to come to.

“Can you help me with this?” he asks, and picks up the datapad, “I don’t understand the concept of combining spells-- the way it’s described is confusing.”

Malch shakes herself out of her stupor, “Yes,” she says quickly, “yes, of course. Come up here.”

She shifts over, to make some space for him. Shiro sits down beside her, datapad in his lap. The mattress is hard, but it’s softer than his cage, even now that he’s been given blankets to line it with. It feels a little exciting, to get to be in her bed. Normally it’s forbidden to him, except special circumstances. She must be feeling very tired in that she doesn’t want to move to the table.

Malch is a furnace, and despite his layers Shiro is still very cold.

She talks confidently, at a low tone for just the two of them. Between her words, and the images she brings up in the bond, they create an interface that feeds Shiro the information as if he’s known it his whole life. Everything happens so much easier now.

By the time it’s the sleeping cycle, Shiro’s learned more than he thought he could learn in a week’s worth of studying. Even more than that. It’s tucked up and nestled in his mind, ready for whenever he needs to call on the information. He should be getting up, getting ready for bed and crawling into his cage. But he feels warm and comfortable here. Malch has leaned up against him while she read and explained things, and he’s slumped against her side with his head resting on her shoulder. His combat training today exhausted him more than he realized. He’s going to have a very hard time getting out of his cage tomorrow.

Malch yawns widely and he can hear the pop in her jaw as it dislocates briefly. She clicks her teeth back together and makes to sit up. Shiro does the same. He’s overstayed his welcome.

“Champion, stay,” Malch orders. Shiro freezes obediently. The tone was soft, but the punishment for disobeying is severe.

“You’ve been having night terrors,” she says. Shiro doesn’t move from where he’s sitting.

It’s not a question, it’s a fact. He must have woken her up. He thought he’d been good about silencing himself. He was wrong.

He nods demurely, “Yes,” he says, “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“And the cage is too small,” she remarks, “it makes it difficult for you to train when it strains your body to be curled up overnight.”

He’s not sure what she’s getting at, but he nods in agreement.

Malch lays down, keeping herself propped up on one elbow, “You’ve been very good lately, so would you like to sleep with me?”

Shiro’s not sure what the right answer is. He’s never even considered sex with a Galra-- not that he hasn’t wondered how they do it. But he never considered that she would just--

Malch is in his mind, and her eyes widen as she learns about her innuendo.

“Enough of that,” she snorts, “I never realized you humans were so crude,” and now he can feel her digging through more memories-- just glimpses into them, but it’s enough. She’s curious about how humans have sex, about mating rituals and the types of partners he prefers. Is he abnormal? Typical for humans?

“Malch,” Shiro says, nearly begging. It’s so personal. She’s dredging it all up to put it on display for herself.

It’s not like she hasn’t seen him naked, there have been more than enough tests, but this is an entirely different thing.

Malch interrupts herself by yawning again.

“Well, a topic for another time,” she says, and then looks back up at him, “what is your choice?”

“My?” Shiro licks his lips, feeling very exposed, and he hugs his arms to himself, “my choice?”

“Where are you sleeping?” Malch says, and she sounds frustrated that she has to repeat herself.

Shiro glances at his cage beside him. It looks so small-- when he’s inside he still likes to pretend that Malch can’t reach him. That he’s safe there. But the nightmares find him, and the cold gets a hold of him and come morning he can barely crawl out because his muscles are so tight.

“Here,” he says, but it’s more of a question.

“Good,” she says, and uses the control panel on the wall to turn off the lights.

Lying down beside Malch feels weird. It feels strange at all to be lying down, stretched out, without having had the wind knocked out of him first. There aren’t any pillows, but he’s definitely slept on worse. He’s comfortable, actually comfortable, and he wants to fall asleep before Malch can change her mind. This is a reward he is happy about. Malch’s other ideas of rewards haven’t always sat well with Shiro, but this is one that makes him smile. He stretches his legs out, pointing his toes, and puts his hands over his head for the sheer novelty of being able to do so.

He makes sure to keep himself away from her so that he doesn’t disturb her at all. He’ll more than likely have night terrors, and she’ll probably kick him out then. But for now, for now he’s going to sleep with a smile.

 

* * *

 

Shiro wakes up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat. Grandpa reaches out of the nightmare, begging for Shiro to die with dignity. Malch pulls him away with warm hands and sharp claws.

“That’s enough,” she orders. Her voice is bleary with sleep. She draws him close and brushes her claws through his hair. She must like the sensation, or thinks it works. And it does, since he knows she’s doing it to calm him down. Shiro steadies his hands by shoving them into his armpits.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

She shushes him, and continues petting, “You are so anxious, my Champion. Calm your mind.”

He can understand her perfectly, and realizes she still has the Bond open. Soothing feelings-- calm, content, satisfied-- flow into Shiro’s mind until the edge has been taken off of his nightmares.

He’s embarrassed now, for waking her up and for letting him see his incomprehensible dreams.

“Enough,” Malch orders, but it’s gentle. There’s no harshness in her voice, though Shiro knows the threat of punishment lurks just below the surface.

She’s drawn him close enough that Shiro can tangle his fingers in her fur. She’s so warm it’s making him dozy again.

He can feel a heartbeat under his hand. This is the closest he’s been to another living creature without having to fight it. He didn’t realize how much he missed being touched, of just this-- touching, being close, this softness.

“I love you,” he says, nearly asleep, “you don’t have to say it, but I want you to know.”

The Bond is quiet, Malch is keeping her thoughts carefully veiled, but she hums in appreciation and Shiro can feel the vibrations through his whole body.

She keeps petting him until he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gives a whole new meaning to all those times Shiro tells Haggar he loves her in LM, doesn't it?! There's so many layers to everything they say to each other that LM alone couldn't convey, and hopefully I'll have a chance to explore more of these things in the near future. Thanks for reading!


	7. AU Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the last one! Thank you all so much for reading through this! We've loved all your comments, and we love all of you. <3 We eat up every bit of feedback, and we love how many of you catch the little things.
> 
> There will be more Tomorrow I'll Switch the Beat in the future!

“All juveniles to the bunkers! Go go go! This is not a drill! Code Aubergine-twelve!”

“Aubergine-twelve? Did he say Aubergine-twelve??” Pidge demanded, eyes lighting up behind their thick glasses.

“I don’t know, man, but lets go, this seems serious,” Hunk said as he tried to shepherd his team down the hall, but Pidge was digging through their bag for something while shaking with excitement and Lance’s eyes were bright with defiance of authority.

“I’m not going to go hide in a bunker if the ruskies are invading!” Lance told him, and Hunk found himself being towed in the wrong direction instead of to safety.

“Oh man…” Hunk groaned.

Any criticism of Lance’s strange claim that it might be Russians attacking again went unchallenged. Hunk was too focused on the chaos around them, and Pidge was just... focused. 

They were moving against the tide of panicked teens, but Hunk was moving his friends into his wake and pushing forwards with a sigh of resignation. 

“The bunker sounds nice and safe,” he pointed out, even as he broke through the mass of people in the direction his friends urged him to go.

“Safety? Hunk, there is glory to obtain!” Lance’s voice was high-pitched in his excitement.

Hunk looked at his friend and rubbed his forehead, deciding, “We’re going to die.” 

“We’re going to get answers,” Pidge corrected absently.

“Answers? About what?” Lance asked, but Pidge didn’t say anything further. 

Mostly, it was because they had made their way out of the building. It was chaos, and it was very easy for them to grab hover-bikes and make their way out of the Garrison, shadowing the stream of vehicles from the building.

The sky was lit up violet with strange lights. The lights moved oddly. “Ships,” Pidge whispered, looking up so intently that they almost crashed into a rock. 

“Wait. Do you mean…?” Hunk trailed off and swallowed hard.

“What? Mean what?? Hunk? Pidge?” Lance looked between them, voice getting louder each time he tried to get clarification. “What are you talking about?!”

“Lights in the sky Lance, a mysterious code, and everyone’s panicking. What do you think?” Pidge asked him, exasperated.

“Missiles? Weird weather? The apocalypse?” Lance guessed wildly. “Zombies?!”

“Ugh.” Pidge ignored him and announced, “The lights seem to be centered around that point, where the ships are heading. I think I know a shortcut.”

Hunk and Lance followed Pidge through the desert, the hoverbikes leaving faint trails in the sand.

Pidge’s shortcut included quite a few very narrow passages and near-misses. 

“How did you know about the shortcut?” Hunk demanded as they paused, waiting for Lance to get back on his hoverbike after he’d gotten knocked off by a low-hanging rock.

“Breaking into the Garrison.”

“What?”

Lance was back on his vehicle. “Let’s go!” he shouted, and Pidge zoomed off without any further explanation.

They slowed when they approached their goal and saw the massive, black ship. It had bright purple lights along its long shaft and sharp spikes jutted out from it, all slanted backwards if they didn’t stand straight out. It screamed ‘evil.’

Strange bipedal creatures were exiting the ship. Some were massive and purple, all different girths and inexact heights, and the rest were all one standard height in full-body armor (approximately the general height of the purple group) and were moving as a unit to surround the ship. It was too far away still for them to be able to see much detail.

“What?” Lance whispered, jaw going slack.

“Is that…?” Pidge wasn’t paying attention to Lance, eyes fixed on the aliens.

“Um, guys?” Hunk wasn’t looking at the strange group of presumable invaders; he was staring at the side, where an alien stood. It stood with a strange looking weapon, and it was aiming it at them. Its face was covered with a soft purple light emitting from a cross-like symbol on its face.

“Holy shit!” Lance shouted and jumped off his bike when the creature fired on him. The blast destroyed the bike, and Lance scrambled for Pidge’s bike. “We gotta go!” he shouted.

“No, we have to figure this out!” Pidge snapped, revving the hoverbike and evading another shot. “Who are you?” they shouted at the alien.

“ _ Who??? _ ” Lance demanded. “ _ What _ are you?!”

“They’re aliens!”

The triumphant voice didn’t come from Hunk or from Pidge. It came from a boy on a red hoverbike, his hair waving in the wind, and a bright look in his eyes. He said it right after shooting the alien in the head with a pistol. There wasn’t any blood, just sparks as it slumped to the ground.

“...KEITH?!” Lance growled, fingers tightening so much that his knuckles were white. 

“Do I know you?” Keith asked him blankly, then shook his head. “Never mind. Come with me if you want to live,” he said with a completely straight face, as though he had no idea that was a quote. Because he didn’t.

“Ugh, that’s so lame,” Lance sneered. 

“Lame? What?”Keith demanded. “Dude, there are aliens, and they just noticed us. We have to get out of here!” Keith glanced to the ship and paled a little. The group of aliens were all looking at them.

“....Now. We have to get out of here  _ now _ ,” Hunk stressed.

“Okay, MAYBE we should leave,” Lance grumbled as they turned their vehicles and raced away from the scene.

The escape was desperate, but between Keith and Pidge, they knew the desert better, and the aliens didn’t seem that focused on them.

“Did something seem weird about the aliens to you?” Pidge asked later at Keith’s hermit hut.

“Uh, yeah? They were purple,” Lance said, lounging on Keith’s favourite chair and eating lukewarm beans.

“Do you think they were all robots?” Hunk asked. “Kind of wish we could have gotten a better look at the one Keith took down.” Everyone ignored Lance’s grumbling at the implied compliment to Keith.

“I don’t think so. Someone has to built robots, right? Plus some of them looked less assembly line, at least from a distance,” Keith guessed with a shrug as he leaned against the wall. 

Lance swung himself up from the chair, letting bean juice drip onto it. “What’s this map thing?” he demanded, jabbing a finger at the map thing.

Things progressed fairly predictably from there.

\------------------------------------

“And then Blue went ’PCHYEEEEEEW’ and the Galra were all like ‘oh no!’ and we were all like ‘booyah bitches’ and then Blue got us here and you woke up and  _ hello gorgeous _ .” Lance beamed at the recently awoken Altean Princess and waggled his eyebrows at her.

“Um. Yes, hello,” she said. “So, you’re the choice of the Blue lion then?” Allura looked at the young space ape that seemed to be trying to charm her and told herself not to doubt the choices of the Lions. These young ‘humans’ had come and brought her and Coran back into the universe, and there was a lot of work to do. She looked at her caregiver and friend. He nodded.

“I think you all have the potential to be Paladins and to fight against the Galra. The Lions are scattered in safe locations across the Universe. The Galra almost took the Blue Lion; they can’t be allowed to take the others. Are you willing to fight the Galra?”

“Of course,” Keith said immediately.

“No way am I missing out on this,” Lance said quickly.

Hunk and Pidge looked more doubtful but both nodded. “I’m looking forwards to learning more about the universe” was all Pidge would say. 

“I don’t think there’s really any way back home, so…” Hunk laughed weakly.

“I can see each of you have the potential to be suitable for each lion in turn. However, there are five Lions, not four. The fifth is here in this Castle, and can only be partnered with once there is a pilot for each other Lion, as the Black Lion’s paladin is the leader of Voltron.”

“Allura, you’re not thinking-” Coran said, turning to look at her with surprise.

“I am. This is not a debate Coran. I am the only solution to this problem,” she said. “Paladins, will you consent to be led by me? I have the potential to pair with the Black Lion, have been trained for leadership as the Crown Princess of Altea, and have knowledge of Voltron.” Allura met the eyes of each human in turn.

“Oh, quiznak,” Coran groaned, looking up at the ceiling. “Why are you so like your father?”

“Who else would lead us?” Pidge asked. “We don’t exactly have any options.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” Lance told her, winking.

Hunk elbowed him. “Stop it. If she’s our leader, that’s just weird, you can’t flirt with our CO.”

“We can do this, together,” Keith spoke up. “Now, what do we do?”

\------------------------------------

Allura really had no idea what she was getting into. The Paladins were juveniles, it turned out. They were connected to their Lions, once they retrieved them, but the connection with each other left a lot to be desired. 

Still, that first time they formed Voltron, it had been breathtaking. No wonder her father had talked of his days as a Paladin so fondly. 

The Black Lion had curled around her soul, and she was lost to her adoration of her noble ship. How had her father ever left the connection with his Lion? The weight of the crown must have weighed all the heavier with his choice to leave his role as Paladin.

Allura had plans to improve their connection as a group. There was Altean technology to use, tactics to try. Coran’s role as support carried with it a lot of knowledge and experience in helping pilots bond.

But before work could be done, she received a message. 

A device had rocketed into the Castle of Lions the second she’d ordered the defences lowered so they could greet the locals of the planet Arus.

They all had thrown themselves to the side and avoided being harmed by it. The second it struck the ground, it fanned out, forming a basis for a hologram to appear.

The hologram took form into a biped, and then clarified into… “A human?” Allura said in surprise, getting to her feet. It was clothed in the robes of a Galran Druid and seemed taller and broader than the humans she had met thus far.

“Shiro?” Keith whispered.

“I am Champion of the Galra. I understand that you are the new Paladins of Voltron. Surrender your Lions before the sun this world orbits reaches the apex of the planet’s rotation, and you shall be allowed to live and find service at the whims of Emperor Zarkon.” Allura practically felt her twigs get brittle at the name of the creature who had brought her species and planet to ruin and conquered the universe.

“Oh yeah? And if we don’t?” Lance challenged.

Champion raised an arm which did not look organic and gestured behind the hologram. “I’ve left you an object lesson in what defying the Emperor earns you.”

The hologram blinked off. Pidge looked shell-shocked. Keith leapt at the thing and battered it into pieces, until his knuckles bled. “That wasn’t Shiro! Shiro would never work for them!” he cried. He didn’t stop hitting it until Coran moved forwards and almost touched his shoulder. He didn’t quite manage it before Keith twitched his shoulder away and abandoned his assault on the hologram producer.

Hunk had moved forwards without them, getting close enough to the village to see what Champion had meant. He was now on his knees, noisily sick and crying.

Allura told the Paladins to stay while she and Coran checked it out. They followed, and she didn’t have the strength to fight them on it. 

The entire Arusian village was dead. Brutally, messily dead. She wanted to demand they bury the slaughtered people, but it would have to be a mass grave. There was no way to identify which limbs belonged to which body. 

It had been a well populated village.

Now it was very clear that none had been spared.

“Paladins, go back to the Castle,” she ordered in a shaking voice. “Now!”

“We don’t know how close the Galra might still be. We all go back,” Coran said, putting a firm hand on her shoulder.

“But-”

“Princess! This is the time to lead, not mourn.”

Allura stiffened her shoulders and nodded. “Right. Back to the Castle, everyone.” 

“Was this just a way to get us away from the Castle?” Pidge suggested, and then turned and started running.

The rest of the Paladins waited a moment and then followed suit, leaving behind the physical horrors of the village, if not the mental images tucked away in their minds for later nightmares.

Pidge had been right. They rounded a corner to see Pidge grabbed by Champion and hoisted into the air by their hair. “Do you see now, Paladins?” Champion demanded. “Surrender Voltron.”

“Let me go! Where’s Matt?! Where’s my dad?! You bastard, I defended you! Let me go and tell me what happened to my family!” Pidge was screaming and tears ran down their cheeks.

“....Pilot error,” Hunk said quietly, which was nonsense to Allura.

“Shiro! Let them go!” Keith screamed hoarsely.

“‘Shiro’?” a nearby Galra asked Champion.

“The third human captured five cycles ago,” Champion explained, making eye contact with Keith though he spoke to the other Galra. “Long dead, of course.”

The Galra laughed and smacked Champion on the shoulder. “I remember! He didn’t cry like the other humans.” 

“Can anything?” Champion laughed as well.

Allura burned. How dare they joke and laugh so casually, as if the Paladins weren’t a threat! 

Pidge screamed in frustration, still dangling by Champion’s grip on their hair.

Keith screamed as he took out his bayard and lunged to attack the Galra that laughed and joked with Champion. Pidge was thrown at him, and they both were knocked to the ground by the force. Lance went to them quickly, helping each of them up and stopping them from attacking again.

“Did you not get a good enough view of the Arusians? Do you want to go back and see in better detail?” Champion asked and then snapped his fingers. “Here! To help you see.” He pulled something out of the folds in his robe and tossed them to Allura. She caught them and stared back at the horrid sight in her palms.

Eyeballs.

Hunk heaved but didn’t seem to have anything left to bring up. 

“Which of you is the Black Paladin?” Champion asked, voice suddenly hard.

They were silent.

Then: “I am.”

Allura stared at Coran, barely understanding what had been said. He looked at her and mouthed the single word: ‘run.’

In a moment, Champions arm glowed purple, and his quintessence flared. Coran’s own quintessence pulsed and then started to flow towards Champion. His face paled and his form flickered. He was screaming, and wrinkles began to appear on his face. 

“No!” Allura screamed, flaring her own quintessence. She meant to interfere, but Coran shoved her away. “Coran!”

“Now, unless you want to die like your leader, I suggest you obey me,” Champion said coolly. Coran wasn’t dead yet, but Champion already considered him such. “Take down the Castle’s security.”

“Okay,” Allura whispered, gathering the Paladins around her, holding on to Keith’s wrist the tightest, to prevent him doing anything rash.

“You don’t need them all with you,” Champion told her sharply.

“It’s keyed to our combined mojo,” Lance told Champion with a believable snivel. Allura was glad, she couldn’t think of an excuse herself. She was leaving Coran to die. How could she leave Coran to die?”

“Hrmm,” Champion said. 

Allura faced the security, reached out, and then dropped it, yanked and kicked the Paladins over the line and brought the shield back. “Get to your lions!” she screamed.

To their credit, they didn’t hesitate. They didn’t argue. They just ran.

Behind her she could hear Champion giving orders. “They don’t have a black Paladin, they can’t form Voltron. Get in the ship, and we’ll take the Lions down ourselves.”

He was in for one hell of a surprise.


End file.
